On Apathy and its Various Forms
by Lucky Dice Kirby
Summary: ‹harry, sherlock, implied sherlock/john› John is out for the night, and Harry pays Sherlock a visit. Originially written for the kink meme.


Harry is drunk. Obviously so, anybody would be able to tell, regardless of their ability at deduction. Sherlock finds it slightly grating, how blatant it is. She could at least make an effort to hide it. Then Sherlock would have something to do, but it's all laid out bare, hardly any trouble to figure out at all.

"Got an early start on the drinking this morning, I see. What was it, eleven o'clock?" he asks her. John would bristle and yell at him, if he was here, but he's not. He's gone out with his mates, leaving Sherlock prepared for an evening of boredom. He ought to be grateful, he supposes, that Harry took this opportunity to drop by the flat unannounced. Something to alleviate the boredom, even if it's only a little bit.

Unlike John, Harry doesn't bristle. She just lazily swirls her glass and levels her gaze at him, quite steady for someone so drunk. Probably from years of practice. She had brought a bottle of nice red wine, supposedly to make up for visiting without calling first. A pathetic ruse. Sherlock hasn't touched it, and Harry's on her second glass.

It's not that he wouldn't like some. It's just that if he starts drinking, it's unlikely he'll stop until he and Harry have emptied the bottle between them, and then John would come back and be angry at both of them. Sherlock is unused to adjusting his actions to please anyone other than himself, and it's a strange feeling.

He already knows everything about how he deduces while drunk, anyway. There's no more experimenting to be done there.

"I did come here for a reason," Harry says, slurring her words only slightly. She did get an early start, but she's been pacing herself. Preparing for his moment, perhaps. Sherlock has no control for these sorts of interactions, no baseline. He needs more data.

"Which you've likely forgotten by now, yes," Sherlock replies coolly. He glances at his watch, and wonders when John will be back. Judging by his previous reactions to anything involving Harry and alcohol, it's probably best if she's not here when he does. He'll have to hurry this up then, because they only have about and hour and a half until John's likely return, give or take twenty minutes.

"Mm, maybe a bit," she says agreeably, and takes another sip. Sherlock had expected her to be more angry, more brash, but more than anything she's simply apathetic. He can see how this constant, pervasive lack of caring could lead to the end of a marriage, could destroy her relationship with her brother. "But I've still mostly got it. Okay, here. Don't fuck with my brother, understand?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, and Harry rolls her eyes and laughs. Enough for her to jostle her glass, but not enough for it to spill. That's more due to how empty it is than to her coordination, however.

"Oh, not literally, I've known about that for ages. That's not what I meant. Don't fuck him _up_, that's what I was going for. Listen. Don't let him turn out like me, alright?"

"He rather loathes what you have become," Sherlock says. He is very glad that John is not here to see this, because he wouldn't speak to Sherlock again for weeks. He hates hearing the truth of his feelings towards Harry, hates that he doesn't love her like he should. And he does love her, Sherlock knows. But sometimes he hates her, too.

John is the only person Sherlock has ever allowed to deceive himself. Normally it would annoy him, but it's different with John. Sherlock wants him to be happy, even if it requires something so stupidly human as believing that which is not true.

Harry looks down. Almost like she's ashamed, but she just tips her head back and finishes her glass, setting it down on the table with a clink. "John's always been a stick in the mud. Keep it that way. I've read what he says about you in that blog of his, what everyone else says about you, and I don't want my brother getting involved in your crazy junky tendencies, alright? He deserves better than that."

"You think I'm not good enough for him?" Sherlock asks. Objectively, he doesn't really care what Harry thinks of him. John probably does, though, and Sherlock cares about that.

"Dunno. You're better for him than I am, so I guess you get a pass. I can think of a lot of creative ways to hurt you if that changes."

Sherlock steeples his fingers. Harry is eyeing the wine like she wants another glass, but she doesn't move to pour herself one. Sherlock takes it and sets it out of her reach, and says, "John has shown himself to be remarkably reliable and stable. I don't think you have anything to worry about."

"He's all I've got to worry about anymore," Harry says, and Sherlock looks away. He doesn't want to hear about this. It's got nothing to do with him. This is John's job, to sit and listen sympathetically. Sherlock can't do it for him.

"Come back in the morning, sober," he says. "John would like to see you."

"Like hell he would," Harry says, conversationally. Then, "I don't think that. That you're not good enough for him. I can keep him from getting angry at me if I mention you, so that's got to mean something." She pauses, furrows her brow, like she's trying to gather her thoughts. "I'm more worried about you leaving him. That's why I was going to come here, originally. He says you get bored a lot."

"That is correct."

"Yeah, well, don't. My brother's not some plaything, understand? He's not something you can just pick up and drop as you please. And I will ruin you if you treat him like one." She nods her head, decisively, like she's accomplished some great task.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock says, and Harry smiles, looking like she believes him. And for that moment, Sherlock believes it, too.

She gets up to leave, slightly wobbly, but she'll manage the stairs just fine. Sherlock inclines his head to her as she goes, but doesn't say anything. He judges that there's a thirty percent chance she'll be back the next day, depending on whether she drinks any more tonight.

Harry leaves the bottle of wine behind her. Sherlock eyes it for a few moments. John rarely drinks, outside of a pint or two when he's out with friends, like he is right now. If Sherlock leaves it, he will be the only one to drink it. With a sigh, he takes it to the kitchen, pours the rest of it down the sink, and waits for John to come home.


End file.
